Dante rarely felt truly nervous, but this time was different. He replayed the events in his mind: the energy link had failed, taking the surveillance system offline. And the guards—why had they disappeared during such a critical moment? Their absence gnawed at him, making no sense.

This left Dante in a precarious position. He had no witnesses, no evidence—only his word. If he were the judge, he wouldn’t believe it either. But then a thought struck him—this could be an opening.

“I might not have evidence,” Dante said slowly, leaning back with a self-assured smirk, “but do you have proof I killed Bidenson?”

Judge Corinne's expression shifted ever so slightly—perhaps amusement, perhaps irritation. Her tone, sharp as a blade, cut through the silence. “It seems the reports were right. You are clever, Dante. But don’t forget—I am the judge. I can convict you without evidence if I choose to.”

Dante felt a cold knot in his stomach but kept his face neutral. “That’s true,” he said calmly. “But that also means you’d have to report it to the Overseer, go through all the formalities. Now, do you think someone like me is worth that kind of trouble, Your Honor?”

Corinne’s gaze hardened, her icy eyes locking onto him like a predator studying prey. The tension was suffocating, and for a moment, Dante thought he might buckle under her stare. But he didn’t flinch. Backing down now would be fatal.

After what felt like an eternity, Corinne’s expression softened, though her voice remained sharp. “You’ve got nerve, Dante, testing a judge’s patience. Aren’t you afraid I’ll convict you just to make a point?”

Dante’s heart raced, but he forced a grin. “I trust you’re too fair and wise for that, Your Honor.”

“Don’t flatter me,” Corinne snapped, though a hint of amusement flickered at her lips. “Fine. This case will remain under review, and you’ll be monitored until I reach a decision.”

“That’s a sound choice, Your Honor,” Dante replied with a polite nod, hiding his immense relief.

Corinne, however, wasn’t done. “But,” she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction, “you failed to complete your assigned task. That means you still face punishment.”

“What? That wasn’t my fault!” Dante exclaimed, frustration spilling out. “It was an uncontrollable situation!”

He was right—technically. Prison rules stated that if uncontrollable factors prevented a task from being completed, the prisoner could be exempt from punishment. By all accounts, Dante should qualify.

But Corinne wasn’t the type to let her authority be questioned. She leaned in, her smile predatory. “Oh, you know the rules so well, don’t you? Then you must also know that challenging a judge warrants punishment.”

“You…” Dante clenched his teeth, suppressing the retort burning on his tongue. Of all the judges, it had to be Corinne Farrel.

“You’re smarter than you look,” Corinne said, clearly enjoying his silence. “Since your record over the past 300 years has been spotless, I’ll be lenient. Your punishment will last four days. Tomorrow, you’ll assist the Beastkeeper in Ashveil Town… by cleaning up beast droppings.”

Dante blinked, certain he’d misheard. He had braced for something brutal—retrieving artifacts near the death fog, harvesting in the Flesh Fields, or diving into the Abyssal Wastes.

But cleaning dung in the Outer Territories?

The name “Outer Territories” implied freedom, but Dante knew better. It was just another layer of the Endless Prison. The death fog defined the true prison, its inescapable grip encompassing everything within its reach.

Those in the Territories—beasts, humans, or otherwise—weren’t truly free. They avoided the strict surveillance of guards but lived under the fog’s constant threat.

Prisoners who ventured there were accompanied by Armed Sentinels—elite guards whose power dwarfed that of standard guards. Dante shuddered to imagine their strength, knowing a single standard guard could destroy a god like Zeus.

Rumors of fail-safes only added to the terror. Supposedly, escapees who braved the fog begged to return to prison rather than face what lay beyond.

It took Dante a moment to process. “Wait,” he said, disbelief in his voice. “My punishment… is to go to the Outer Territories?”

“Yes,” Corinne said, a smirk on her lips. “Don’t think it’s light. Cleaning beast droppings is no simple task.”

Dante vaguely recalled reading about this job in a journal left by a previous prisoner. He resolved to reread it before his assignment. “Understood. When do I leave?” he asked, masking his unease.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Tomorrow morning,” Corinne replied. “But remember—if your performance is unsatisfactory, your next punishment will be far worse.”

Her smile grew sharper. “And don’t forget—there are only five days until The Moonlit Rite. You wouldn’t want to end up as an offering, would you?”

A chill crept down Dante’s spine. Corinne’s words weren’t teasing—they were a warning.

“I’ll do my best,” Dante said seriously.

“Good boy,” Corinne replied, her smile both alluring and menacing.

For once, Dante had no comeback. Whatever awaited him in Ashveil Town, it had to be better than becoming a sacrifice. Or so he hoped.

After Judge Corinne Farrel left the interrogation room, Dante was released and escorted back to his cell. To his surprise, Ares was already inside, fiddling with that same makeshift altar he’d used before, seemingly in the middle of some sort of ritual.

“Ares, what the actual hell are you doing?” Dante shouted, his thoughts snapping back to the present from the whirlwind of earlier events.

Ares snapped out of his trance, and upon seeing Dante alive, burst into laughter. “Ha! You’re alive! My prayers worked! See? I told you I’m a god of war and miracles!”

Without warning, he wrapped Dante in a crushing bear hug and spun him around like a ragdoll. Dante wheezed, feeling his ribs on the verge of collapse.

“Put... me... down!” Dante managed to choke out, his face contorted in pain.

Ares finally relented, dropping Dante to the ground with a thud. “I gotta say, though, you’ve been on a bad streak lately. First, the guards haul you off to see an Enforcer. Then, this whole mess happens, and you’re dragged before a Judge. What the hell’s going on?”

Dante let out a heavy sigh. He had no idea why his usually uneventful 300-year sentence had taken such a chaotic turn. “First things first—get that lousy altar out of here, and then we’ll talk.”

Once Ares had stashed the crude ritual setup, Dante recounted the events. Ares listened with rapt attention, his expressive face shifting between shock, curiosity, and grim seriousness.

“This ‘Mother of Black Sheep’ Bidenson was raving about... that sounds like some seriously dark stuff. Did you mention it to the Judge?” Ares asked, his tone uncharacteristically solemn.

“It’s Black Goat, I didn’t have to. She probably already knows. But the fact that she didn’t bring it up during the interrogation... there’s definitely something going on behind the scenes,” Dante replied, his brow furrowed in thought.

Ares clapped a heavy hand on Dante’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, you’re alive. Plus, you’ve got a rare chance to see the Outer Territories. That’s got to count for something, right?”

The thought of leaving the prison, even temporarily, did lift Dante’s spirits. “You’re right. It’s a rare opportunity. At least it’ll break up the monotony of this damn place. But I’m not going out there for a vacation—I’ve got a job to do. And if I mess up, I’ll be in even deeper trouble.”

“You’ll be fine,” Ares said confidently, crossing his arms. “The Moonlit Rite measures a prisoner’s performance over ten years. One or two mistakes won’t ruin your chances.”

Dante’s face tightened with worry. “That’s true, but now I’ve got a Judge watching my every move. Corinne could convict me on a whim if I slip up.”

After a few more exchanges, Ares finally returned to his cell, dragging the shoddy altar behind him. Soon, the sound of his television filled the air again as he indulged in his usual “entertainment.”

Dante rolled his eyes and turned to his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out an old, dusty notebook—a journal he hadn’t touched in decades. This notebook, left behind by the cell’s previous occupant, had been one of the keys to Dante’s survival. Titled “Matheson’s Journal,” it was a treasure trove of wisdom about the prison’s rules, quirks, and dangers.

Matheson’s Journal was an old, worn notebook, its pages thinned by time. Dante flipped to the middle, finding the part where Matheson wrote about the Outer Territories.

“Day... Who Even Knows Anymore.”

A few days ago, fate either smiled on me or spat in my face. Hard to tell sometimes. That blasted Enforcer, in their endless wisdom, decided I was fit for a "grand mission" to the Outer Territories. It’s day seven now, and here I stand—battered, but not broken. The Armed Sentinels, ever the stoic pillars of charm, remain as lively as gravestones. My partner, Cookell, met an unfortunate end today—brought down by his own arrogance, I suspect. We weren’t exactly "best friends," but he was my comrade, so I honored him in the way of my people.

Yes, I pissed on his corpse. It’s a sacred tradition, you barbarian. Try to keep up.

Dante couldn’t help but chuckle. “Classic Matheson,” he muttered before continuing.

“As for the mission? Retrieve a scroll of unknown importance. I don’t know what’s on it, but the Enforcer seemed unusually focused. My guess? Some crafty fool managed to smuggle it out of the prison. A bold move, but probably not a smart one. Our destination was a city called Larlinn, but on the way, we passed through Ashveil—a strange little village. Creepy, yes, but oddly calm compared to the madness everywhere else. The locals are rough around the edges but welcoming. They fed us well, which is more than I can say for the slop they call food back at the prison.”

“Now this next bit, pay attention—it’s important.”

Dante sat up straighter, his eyes fixed on the page.

“Ashveil isn’t part of any kingdom. An old man at the tavern claimed it answers directly to the prison itself. Weird arrangement if you ask me, but it explains why the place hasn’t been destroyed like so many others. Of course, being under the prison’s control doesn’t exactly scream ‘freedom.’ It’s just trading one cage for another.”

“That said, Ashveil won me over with its food. Their beast meat—oh, what a feast!—is rumored to boost strength, sharpen the mind, and even strengthen the soul. Whether or not that’s true, I can confirm this: it’s delicious. I ate like a starving man at a royal banquet. But the beasts themselves are another story entirely. They aren’t normal livestock. Huge, ferocious, and disturbingly intelligent, these creatures have powers that even make the guards wary.”

“And now, the star of the show—beast dung. Yes, you heard that right. Dung. The locals treat it like precious treasure, gathering it with the care of skilled alchemists. Naturally, I was curious. I, Matheson the Magnificent, couldn’t let this mystery go unsolved. So, I took a small sample—purely for research, of course. If I make it out of this alive and back to my lab, I’ll give it to old Merlin for analysis. Who knows? Maybe it’s the key to immortality. Or maybe it’s just really fancy poop.”

The rest of the entry detailed Matheson’s journey to Larlinn, but Dante stopped reading there.

“I remember now. The beasts in Ashveil are dangerous. This job could kill me,” Dante murmured, his expression darkening.

Morning would come soon enough, and Dante had little choice but to prepare.